I
imagine coldness, this twofold address, kissing in shadows; as not to touch,
but flushed in spirit, manipulating energies; this whiff of love, as mere his
mind, to mention something foreign: this passion of arts; that dream by fires;
that camping bag. I awoke a feeling, this killing sensation, at wars to suggest
nonchalance: that powerful arm, as so enchanting, to pull forth a tsunami; as
loved that mind, this pale grayness, to imagine this felt contempt: that movie
at cinemas, dragging this lilting heart, this daughter by waves an engine;
where mothers brag, as feeling mischief, this family of hidden woes. I’ve grown
in love, peering this paradox, as one immature for love: to dance naked,
dripping in soap, while one holds our hands; this felt contempt, to such that
child, as surfing by heights this fusion. I loved a song, peering at justice,
blazing Zap Momma: this fragile voice, as made of steels, to echo through
Africa; where ours is pale, this sealing of chaos, as unaccepted dearly. I cry
these nights, fleeing to illusions, these multiple conversations; to rev our
hearts, that burning sensation, as crying our flames. It took for madness, as
so uncultured, to feel stalwart emotions: this chase to love, where love was absent,
while feeling abandoned—by one with dreams, as never our faces, chiming to
fireflies. It had to live us, this type of confusion, where love inverted; as
calling majesty, this falling castle, while feigning glory this act of smiles.
We love for passion, to invest in woes, while cheering our joyous ways: this
fabulous love, as misunderstood, where only certain eyes may see: that vest of compassion;
those inner scars; that turf of soil our brains. I had to feel us, this needs
for prose, while ours was alarmed dearly; to culture a wound, as this bleeding
joy, where a minute surges into orbit: that kind reply, by thought that volt,
as hearts mingle with brains; to love us more, as distant as islands, while
rend asunder. I’m at woods this feeling, this sylvan of wows, at pace this terror of feelings; to pray by knees, or to pace
by graces, while mindful of four persons; to hold conversations, drifting from
zero to fifty, where hearts race by hundreds; this languid schedule, to finally
eclipse, staring at eyes he never seen. I adore our arts, this furious fever,
plus, those talents acquired through combat: to touch a dream, too old to
remember, while hewn to perfection; that life we chose, that love we scold,
those days at paths a living nightmare; where earth is grains, while skies are
flames, unto this mother loathing his soul; but times were rich, this cadence
of feelings, while entertaining sobriety; to hold contempt, while skating
slopes, admiring others for chasing moons. I must advance, at love this voice,
where ours drifts unto insanities; this vague attraction, as to reread prose,
while a loved one pardons this scar. We sip as gone, but with full composure,
at woes to relate our mirrors; this felt expression, to thump our hearts, while
our Ghost looms in madness. I must retreat, as not to speak love, this
formidable adventure—as knowing those groans, seeping into eyes, a bit ashamed
of sensing color; this desert walk, while daughters draw, as mothers piece
together subliminals.
